The Road Home
by Icarus
Summary: Yeah well, sooner or later people are gonna put two and two together. And stop coming up with five."
1. Default Chapter

The Road Home

By Icarus

No one at the SGC ever thought he'd retire.

No, for all the threats and complaints and the times he swore he was "gonna blow this popsicle stand" to spend the next twenty years fishing, General O'Neill was always back again for more.

"Yeah well," he'd tell everyone. "Someone has to keep Daniel out of trouble." Never mind that SG-1 had been restricted to non-combat duty for years, ostensibly to make the best use of Dr. Jackson's linguistic skills (though everyone knew O'Neill had more injuries than half the SGC combined). O'Neill said simply, his hand slicing the air, "When _he_ retires, I retire. Got that? Otherwise, no dice."

Then Dr. Jackson won his grant for a three-year archeological dig on a cleared world. A "real" dig, with careful methods on a valuable find.

Amazingly, O'Neill kept his word.

Still it came as no great surprise that when the General hung up his uniform, his black bomber jacket and silver hair became a familiar sight as he poked around the SGC, harassing the troops. O'Neill's official title was 'Consulting Liaison' for the OIA, the agency responsible for reverse engineering off-world technology - mostly weapons. Between bites at the farewell dinner he'd called his job "sniffing for new toys. They just want my security clearance. I don't understand a word of what those dweebs with the, uh, pocket-protectors say -"

"Then you should feel right at home," Dr. Jackson had quipped, casting a warm smile at him across the table as he stirred food around on his plate. Rumor had it that Dr. Jackson was the one who'd pushed for his retirement.

O'Neill had just ignored him. "- but they get all excited." He'd pointed with his fork. "I only hope they're paper-trained, because, you know -- cleaning up piddle? _Not_ in the job description."

The fact that he was jazzed by off-world technology wasn't lost on anyone.

General O'Neill peered around a wall of lockers as the exhausted SG-27 stripped down. They were still covered in off-world grit, dropping gear in a tired clatter.

"Hey! Be careful with that thing," he snapped at Andrews. They squirmed and fought the urge to stand. "Do you have any idea what this shit costs? It's _obscene_."

It was hard not to salute the man who'd trained them. Even if he was a civilian now, and the complete son of a bitch who'd said they'd never make it in the Stargate program.

"Yes sir," Andrews grinned, bright smile white against dark skin. He carefully set his zat gun on the bench.

"Thank you." He breathed a sarcastic sigh of relief. The General folded his arms as he leaned against a locker. "So. Get shot at by anything... interesting... lately?"

Yep. That was General O'Neill through and through. He always went straight to the soldiers on the ground, never mind reports and official channels.

SG-27 laughed, pulling t-shirts over their heads, kicking off grimy boots, their dogtags jingling. Two or three lockers slammed, though no one left for the showers yet. They weren't supposed to tell him anything, it was supposed to vetted first, but somehow they all competed to dig up intel for the General. The man was a legend.

"Yeah," Thilhousie answered, "but it's a little hard to fit in your pocket. Big as one of those pyramids." He sketched the shape in midair.

"Shooting at you?" The General's eyebrows raised, impressed, with an edge of irritation and concern. "They had you up against something that big? What was it - one of those ground-to-orbit 'sky canons'?"

"No sir. Bigger than that."

The General scowled.

Yeah, and that's why they talked to him. You could be sure if anyone at the SGC was doing something stupid, General Hammond would hear about it, ASAP.

"Who's your CO?"


	2. The Road Homepart 2

The Road Home - part 2

By Icarus

It was startling to see someone in civilian clothes in the Control Room, and even more surprising to realize that that was General O'Neill leaning entirely too close to a digital read-out. Evan's eyes widened. Soldiers near delicate equipment set his teeth on edge.

The cup of coffee in O'Neill's hand dangled precariously as he chatted with one of the old timers.

Susan at the MALP controls read her new supervisor's mind and murmured, "General O'Neill's here every Friday night."

O'Neill glanced up at the sound of his name. Nothing wrong with his hearing, that was for sure. "Relax. I haven't broken anything in days. Weeks even."

The coffee cup was empty, and Evan felt his shoulders relax. A little. O'Neill turned back to his conversation. What was he doing here?

"Do you miss it?" Susan chirped, snagging the General's attention again.

"Huh? Nah." O'Neill made a face, then tried to take a sip of his coffee, with a startled scowl at the cup. He looked up and took in all the doubtful expressions around with a quick glance. "All right. Maybe a little. But it's not like how it was. We used to not _know_ what was on the other side there. The MALP was more than just a precaution -- it was a necessity. And it still didn't help much." He seemed to notice what panel she manned and added quickly, brushing the air with an off-handed gesture, "No offense."

Her response was drowned out by the squall of the klaxon, and everyone turned their attention to their jobs, headphones on, eyes to the read-outs. Evan hovered over his staff as their fingers flew, making split-second adjustments. This was probably the only excitement they were going to see all weekend.

The iris slowly opened.

"SG-32," someone read the GDO signal, and O'Neill sat up. The seventh chevron engaged.

The _whoosh_ of the Stargate never failed to take the breath away. Everyone looked up, then quickly busied themselves at the consuls. Blue light danced about O'Neill's face as he watched the gate hungrily, hands leaning on a rail.

A ragged team of archeologists stepped through the event horizon, with the wince of people who'd just come from a very quiet place into chaos. Last to arrive was Dr. Jackson. The gate shut off in a flash behind him.

O'Neill was already clanking down the metal steps two at a time.

The SFs let him through as though this were routine, and the General strode into the gate room pointing to his watch.

"Nice of you to finally show up. I've been waiting here for over an hour!"

Dr. Jackson pulled off his gloves and caked mud crumbled to the platform; dust caught the light in faint swirls about him. He looked like he was probably tanned under the dirt, his hair bleaching to blond from the sun. In February.

"Good to see you too, Jack."

O'Neill approached, then backed up a step.

"Phew!" He held a palm out to keep Dr. Jackson at arm's length. "Don't you ever bathe on that planet?"

"Well, which would you dig first: the latrine, or the showers?"

"Yeah you smell like you've been bathing in the latrine."

"This is nothing. I once went three weeks --"

O'Neill backed away, sing-songing, "Doooon't wanna hear about it...."

"-- and we didn't have toilet paper either."

"Now there's a detail I didn't need to know." O'Neill swiped at his nose. "It's like this putrid wave just... radiating off you."

"You get used to some primitive conditions," Dr. Jackson responded calmly. Though his assistants at the bottom of the ramp didn't stand very close either.

"Okay, Tarzan. Let's reintroduce you to the pleasures of civilization."

Dr. Jackson's eyebrows raised, prurient and smug. "Hmm, really?"

"Don't be cute. You're gonna start with a shower." O'Neill led the way to the locker rooms. Dr. Jackson held the door. "'Cause you're not getting into my truck smelling like two weeks of dead socks. Or live ones either."

Evan's nagging curiosity was answered later when O'Neill sheepishly returned for a black bomber jacket left draped across a chair. Dr. Jackson trailed behind him, hair still spiky and wet.

"Uh. Yeah," Dr. Jackson answered him, rubbing the back of his neck like he had a headache. "Jack gives me a ride home every week." Dr. Jackson gave O'Neill a cautious glance; then continued at his shrug. "I sold my car -- well, technically, Jack sold my car."

"It was an Isuzu," O'Neill sneered, as if that explained everything.

"It was fuel efficient. But since I was hardly driving anyway, it seemed sort of, oh, wasteful."

"I told him when he bought the thing it was a piece of shit." O'Neill shook his head.

"One flat tire doesn't make it a beater, Jack."

"I had to lie to sell it," Jack announced to the control room crew. "Lie, lie, lie; '_oh nooooo, my grandmother only drove it to church on Sundays._' Not Speed Racer here." He indicated Dr. Jackson with a jerk of his head.

Dr. Jackson sighed. "Speed limits are a matter of principle," he said with a strangled patience that Evan was already starting to understand. "The purpose of the law is to avoid accidents, so people don't drive faster than they can manage or conditions allow. Tickets are just meant to raise money for highways. Either way, we're fine. If I'm pulled over -- I've made my contribution to society. I'm perfectly comfortable at high speeds."

"Well, I'm not. Not with you behind the wheel. And the point of the law is that it's the law." It had the ring of an old argument. Evan followed it like a tennis match.

"Laws exist for a reason," Dr. Jackson shook his head, "you have understand the motive or the law itself becomes meaningless --" O'Neill rolled his eyes. "-- Look, the state _wants_ people to drive fast. The technology has existed for decades to make it impossible for cars to go more than seventy. So... why do you think they don't legislate it?"

O'Neill brushed at the air. "Yeah, well, there's something really wrong with a guy who drives a shitty car ninety miles an hour. If you're gonna drive like that, Daniel, get a Camaro or something."

"Or a truck?" Dr. Jackson grinned at him, impish. O'Neill gave him a dirty look. "The Isuzu worked fine for me."

"It was an _Isuzu_." They waved good night to the bemused gateroom crew. O'Neill was pulling his jacket on as they left, continuing the argument as if he had to have the last word. "You know what _I_ think we should have done with that car? Popped it through a wormhole: give it to the Gou'ald. Probably set their technology back nine hundred years.

"By-the-way. That idiot on SG-27's at it again."

"Jack. You don't work here any more."


	3. The Road Homepart 3

The Road Home Part 3

By Icarus

Sonja was used to hearing odd stories in the commissary. It had been so strange, years ago, all those security checks for just a cooking job. Then she found out why cooking soup was Top Secret.

For a long time she'd thought they were all kidding, until Major Carter hooked up that machine and a glowing giant bug floated right through her kitchen wall. After that -- okay. This was a no-joke, crazy kind of place.

It was two am when Dr. Jackson slumped into the commissary, his boots loud in the near-empty room. General O'Neill was asleep on folded arms, with the soft swish of a broom working its way around him.

Dr. Jackson touched his shoulder, and O'Neill jerked awake.

"Sorry."

After fifteen years, Sonja knew every voice, even knew little bits and pieces of their lives. It had been some time since these two had been in here for anything more than coffee. She started making a roast beef sandwich for General O'Neill, and a ham and cheese for Dr. Jackson. Sandwiches were all there was at this hour: no more chili. The pots were already scrubbed.

"Sorry I'm late." She peered around as Dr. Jackson sank to the seat across from O'Neill. Their voices sounded hollow, echoing off concrete walls.

O'Neill stretched and groaned. "Again."

Dr. Jackson sighed. "We were attacked -"

"Attacked?" O'Neill squawked, rubbing his eyes and blinking. "Wait-a-minute. You got attacked on this thing? I only retired because I knew you were _safe_."

"That's…" Dr. Jackson looked up as he accepted his sandwich, smiled, then glanced away. He was both nicer and more evasive than most. He never said much about his life. He'd mentioned that his apartment was too small once or twice, but no word of a girlfriend or family. "…that's, um, not why you retired."

"It was part of it!" O'Neill shouted. "A big part."

They sat in silence for a long moment. Since they were the only ones in the commissary, Sonja listened with practiced skill, used to being invisible.

Finally O'Neill prompted, "So…? Attacked -?"

"We're shut down for now." Dr. Jackson rubbed his eyes. "Until further notice."

General O'Neill nodded, accepting that. "What happened? Thought we had the Gou'ald high-tailing it to greener galaxies."

"It's not the Gou'ald. There's something in there the Tokra doesn't want us to have, or doesn't want to exist." He'd folded his arms in that self-protective irritated way he had. Uhm-hmm. Dr. Jackson was _not_ a happy camper. "Either way, they gave us two days to leave."

"But you didn't."

"We were negotiating." O'Neill gave him a Look and Dr. Jackson huffed out a breath. "They're on our side! These ruins are some of the best preserved on any cleared world. I spent months pouring over photos deciding and…."

"And?"

"…annnnd… I'm not going to have another shot at this. Not if I can't prove it's safe," he sighed. "So we're gonna continue our ditch and run 'technique' of archeology for the next fifty-odd years, until someone finally figures out that what we're trampling on is valuable. But by then it'll be too late. It's worse than the Christian digs."

"Christian?" O'Neill squinted at him.

"Oh. Um, yeah," Dr. Jackson hurriedly explained. "The first people to try to locate old ruins were Christians who wanted to prove various stories in the bible. To be fair, everything we know about modern archeology began with them, the search for Troy, for Babylon. But it's more like a rogues gallery of what _not_ to do."

"Trial and error." O'Neill snorted.

Dr. Jackson nodded. "Ironically, by the time we figured out how to do it right, the information they sought was lost beyond recovery. But we know better now. _I_ know better." He ran his hand through his hair. "My name's going to be synonymous with the destruction of Heliopolis and everything like it."

Their eyes met. O'Neill chewed his lip as he leaned back in his chair, his hair ruffled from sleep.

"Hmmph," he said.

"Hmmph?" Dr. Jackson's eyebrows raised. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

The General tipped his head. "Well. It sorta sounds like you did do too good a job picking that site."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I dunno. You don't think it's really gonna be shut down, do you? I mean if I were from Washington, I'd be pretty curious about what's in there. _I'm_ curious."

"Well, yeah, me too. But General Hammond sent me home and does _not_ want to see me right now." The Doctor turned a bright eye towards him. "You're hoping it's a big cache of weapons, aren't you?"

"With racing stripes." The General spread his hands. "Hey, all my best stuff's from the Tokra."

"They love you for it too, you know."

O'Neill chuckled, eyes gleaming. "Eat your sandwich."

Sonja smiled to herself, glad _someone_ was making Dr. Jackson eat, as she started cleaning the kitchen. Their conversation was drowned out by the sound of running water, until she heard them approaching, and the clatter of trays set on the counter.

"…you're worse than I am," Dr. Jackson was saying.

"Hey! I finished those book cases."

"Oh?" Dr. Jackson answered, snatching the last half of his sandwich off his plate. They stood there as Dr. Jackson finished.

"And they're full." The General gave him a tight smile. "Already. The living room, the bedroom's got more books than I can stand looking at -- it's like a library or something. I feel like I've gotta _whisper_. Can't you just-?"

"I'm not going to stop buying books, Jack."

"How 'bout a yard sale? For the ones you don't read?" Dr. Jackson sighed in exasperation. "There's gotta be at least some you haven't looked at in a while."

"Jack. Okay. Let's say I did have a yard sale. How many people in Boulder do you think will buy _Epistemology in Ancient Mesopotamia _for fifty cents?"

"If it has pictures we could probably get a buck for it."

"Jack…."

"Fine, fine. I'll just put in an addition for Doctor Daniel's library. You want an engraved plaque to go with that?"

"No. The library will be fine. I assume I don't have to cut the ribbon during opening ceremonies."

The sweep of the broom paused. And then continued. Up until that moment, Sonja had assumed they were talking about Dr. Jackson's apartment. But no one put an addition on an apartment. The General had a house. Had Dr. Jackson bought a house and never mentioned it?

"You already have the keys to the castle."

Dr. Jackson paused, looking over at O'Neill. "Okay…" he said slowly, pursing his lips. "I'll help you."

Help him put an addition on his own house? This had to be O'Neill's place.

"What do you know about carpentry?" O'Neill scoffed.

"Hello?" He raised his hand. "Scaffolding? Archeology -?"

"Yeah, well, it's not the same." General O'Neill turned serious for a moment, changing the subject. "If you can wait around a few hours, I'll talk to Hammond." He toyed with his coffee cup, not looking up as he turned it on the counter. "I have a little favor to ask anyway."

The cup kept turning. Left, right.

"Favor?" Dr. Jackson blinked; then a look of understanding dawned. "Oh, _that_ favor?"

"It can't go on much longer. People are gonna figure it out."

"So you're going to ask him both -- at the same time? What? You can't ask him for a million dollars too while you're at it?"

"Nah," O'Neill grinned. "That might be pushing my luck."


End file.
